


your words like kisses on my skin

by sara_wolfe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Panic Attacks, Reading Aloud, author fancies herself a poet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-02 14:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20277502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/pseuds/sara_wolfe
Summary: But by the third day, Aziraphale knew without a doubt that something was wrong with him. Something was terribly, irrevocably broken.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the 'angst' square on Ineffable Husbands Bingo
> 
> For the following prompt on Good Omens Kink Meme: 
> 
> _Since the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale's been unable to properly focus and read his books (one of his main sources of comfort). His beloved books of prophecy? Can barely get past the first prediction. The new classic children's books that had appeared after Adam restored the bookshop? The pictures are quite nice, but the words seem to swim in and out of his eyes. Even his guilty pleasure - cozy murder mysteries smuggled in from Waterstone's - fail to get more than a "meh."_
> 
> _At his wit's end, he confides in Crowley, who tries to help (even though he's not much of a reader himself)._

After Adam defied Lucifer and stopped the Apocalypse, resetting the world, everything had gone back to normal. Or, it should have. 

Aziraphale didn’t realized anything was wrong, at first. He was so busy that first day - getting abducted by Hell, lunch with Crowley, dinner with Crowley, spending the night with Crowley because neither of them wanted to be alone - that he’d only taken a quick look around his bookshop. He’d had Crowley’s reassurance, after all, telling him that Adam had restored everything to its former glory, and he’d promised himself that he’d take the very next day to go over everything. So, he hadn’t worried that first day, hadn’t even realized that there was a problem.

He hadn’t worried overly much the second day, either. Sure, words on the spines of his books were a little blurry, but he’d attributed that to the low light of the shop and the fact that he was still getting used to his brand-new corporation. There was bound to be a hiccup or two while the new body sorted itself out. He’d assumed he was just tired, told himself it was nothing to worry about. 

But by the third day, he knew without a doubt that something was wrong with him. Something was terribly, irrevocably broken. 

It started over breakfast. He liked to greet the morning with tea, a light breakfast, and a book of good poetry. It was a routine that he’d engaged in for a couple hundred years, now, and he was eager to get back to it. He’d been in the middle of a rather excellent petry compilation, a book that he found waiting just where he’d left it on the table in his tiny dining area, and he’d picked up the slim volume and opened the pages to the place he’d last bookmarked. 

But what he saw on the page wasn’t making any sense. The words on the page weren’t in the same order they’d been in when he’d last left the book. Frowning, he closed the book to look at the cover, just in case he’d somehow grabbed the wrong book, but the cover was exactly as he remembered. So he opened the book back up again, only to find that things had gotten even worse. Now, the individual letters on the page were all jumbled up, scattered across the page like someone had opened a bag of Scrabble tiles and upended it all over the book. 

Aziraphale tried not to panic. Carefully closing the book and replacing it on the edge of the table where it had been sitting, he ate his breakfast with hands that absolutely were not shaking. No, this wasn’t going to make him anxious; it was just one book, and it was entirely possible that Adam had simply not put it back together correctly. 

He even tried not to panic after breakfast, when he went through some of the other books in his collection. He couldn’t go through every single book he owned; he was meeting with Crowley at the park shortly, and he didn’t want to be late, but the books he was able to look at all had the same problem as the first. Their letters swam in front of his eyes, blurring and shifting. But, he tried not to panic; this was likely just a mistake on Adam’s part, and easily fixed once he had a word with the boy. All he had to do was make one quick phone call and his bookshop would be restored to normal by lunch. 

Reassured, Aziraphale locked up the shop and headed down the street toward the park. Crowley had offered to come by and pick him up in the Bentley, but Aziraphale had wanted to walk. He wanted to take the time to fully appreciate the world they’d saved from the Apocalypse. 

But, the only thing the walk did was prove, without a doubt, that whatever problem he was having reading, it wasn’t just confined to his beloved books. The signs on the shops around him were gibberish. The harder he tried to concentrate on a sign, the less even the individual letters ceased to make sense. He found himself standing in front of a storefront window, tracing a letter over and over with his finger as he desperately tried to remember exactly which letter it was. 

He was so preoccupied with the nonsense signs that he was late meeting Crowley at the park. Crowley didn’t comment when he came rushing up, apologizing profusely as he checked the time on his pocket watch. (At least numbers hadn’t abandoned him, too.) Instead, Crowley had suggested a walk outside of the park, leading Aziraphale down the street and to a little hole-in-the-wall restaurant that had opened only recently. 

“Fancy a spot of lunch?” Crowley asked, holding the door open for him like the answer was obvious. And who was Aziraphale to turn down new food?

Crowley pulled out his chair for him, his hand brushing gently against Aziraphale’s shoulder in a way that made his chest feel all fluttery. He ordered the wine, too, a lovely vintage that Aziraphale hadn’t had in quite some time. And he was smiling at Aziraphale, a genuinely affectionate smile on his face that he also hadn’t seen in quite some time. Everything was lovely, and Aziraphale was having a wonderful time-

-and then the waiter put a pair of menus on the table and the peaceful moment came crashing violently down. 

Aziraphale could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat as he stared down at the menu he knew he wasn’t going to be able to read. He opened the menu, hoping for pictures to go with the descriptions, but he was just greeted by more letters he couldn’t make sense of. He could feel tears of frustration pricking at the corners of his eyes as he tried to read something, anything on the menu. 

“All right there, angel?” Crowley asked, suddenly, and Aziraphale lifted his menu a little further into the air, trying to hide whatever expression he had on his face that had prompted Crowley to ask that in the first place. 

“Fine,” he lied, a little too quickly. “Just - everything looks so scrummy, I’m having a hard time deciding.” 

“I thought you’d like this place,” Crowley told him, his voice warm and fond, and when Aziraphale sneaked a peek around the corner of his menu, he found Crowley watching him with that little smile on his face. “They’ve got a stuffed salmon dish that looks pretty good,” Crowley went on, after a moment, and Aziraphale turned his attention back to his menu, pretending to search for the entree. 

“Oh, that does look good!” he said, although he couldn’t have located it on the menu if his life depended on it. “I think I’ll have that.”

The food arrived surprisingly quickly after they ordered, and Aziraphale felt his stomach growling when he took in the sight of his delicious-looking salmon. Taking his first bite, he closed his eyes as he savored the tastes on his tongue, almost moaning with pleasure. When he opened his eyes again, it was to see Crowley watching him yet again.

“Something on my face?” Aziraphale asked, reaching for his napkin, but Crowley shook his head. 

“You always look so happy when you eat,” he commented. 

“Well, it’s easy to be, when there’s such good food,” Aziraphale replied. “And such good company, too,” he added, delighting in the way the words made Crowley’s cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink. 

“On that note,” Crowley said, suddenly, digging into his coat pocket for something, “I-uh-I wanted to give you this.” He put a folded piece of paper down on the table, right by the edge of Aziraphale’s plate, and Aziraphale slowly picked it up with trembling hands. “It’s not much,” Crowley went on, the dismissive tone in his voice at odds with the tense lines around his mouth and eyes. “It’s not pretty, or elegant, not like the poets you’ve got back at your shop, but it’s - it’s from the heart,” he finished, a little desperately. “I mean every word.”

Aziraphale felt like he was going to be sick.

He unfolded the paper, already knowing what he was going to find inside. A jumble of lines and curves swam about the page, mocking him for his inability to make any of it make sense. He could feel his breath start to quicken, like a panic attack, which was ridiculous because he was an angel and he didn’t have panic attacks. The tears that had threatened earlier were back, his eyes stinging as he fought to keep the tears from falling. 

Without thinking, he crushed the paper in his fist, only realizing his mistake when he looked up to see Crowley staring at him in a mix of shock and confusion. Aziraphale opened his mouth to explain, to say something, anything, but the words got stuck in his throat, and the silence between them stretched on.

“I can’t-” he finally managed to choke out, shoving his chair away from the table so violently that it fell over. “I have to get out of here.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley called out, the unmistakable sound of pain in his voice, but Aziraphale ignored him and fled.


	2. Chapter 2

He managed to avoid Crowley for almost a month. 

The sign on the front of the bookshop stayed firmly turned to closed, the lights remained dark. Aziraphale stayed up in his rarely-used bedroom, curled up under the dusty blankets as he stared at the books he could no longer read. 

Crowley’s note was on the table beside the bed. He hadn’t realized that he was still holding it until he got home, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw the piece of paper away. Instead, he’d smoothed out the wrinkles as best he could, tracing the lines of the letters like he could absorb their meaning into his skin. 

He hadn’t intended on spending a month in bed. But one day turned into two, turned into three and he just kept…not getting up. He did try; in the middle of the third day, he pushed the blankets off himself, made himself stand up, and started determinedly toward the stairs. But he wasn’t even halfway down the stairs before his ears started ringing, and his vision went gray around the edges, and he had to sit down on the stairs because it felt like a rock was lodged in his chest, making it hard to breathe. It was all he could do simply to haul himself to his feet and drag himself back into the bedroom, under the comforting embrace of the blankets. 

It wasn’t like he needed to get up, after all. He didn’t feel like opening the shop; in fact, not opening the shop made it easier to not sell books, so that was a distinct advantage. (He tried very hard not to think about how the books were all but useless to him, now.) However much he enjoyed eating, he didn’t actually need to, so he didn’t need to get up for that. And even though he didn’t usually sleep, there was no reason he couldn’t start now. Crowley had once slept for an entire century, so surely-

Crowley. If there was ever a reason for Aziraphale to get out of bed, it would be for Crowley. Crowley deserved an explanation for his behavior at the restaurant, deserved an apology for the hurt Aziraphale had caused him when he’d run out in the middle of lunch. But the thought of trying to tell Crowley why he’d run away made him feel like he had when he’d tried to go downstairs, and he curled into a miserable ball under the covers while the room spun around him like a top and he struggled to draw air into lungs that technically didn’t need it but still demanded to breathe anyway. 

So it was easier to just not think about Crowley. Easier to not think about anything, easier to just close his eyes and let himself drift away.

* * *

It was Crowley’s voice that pulled him out of his daze. 

Not Crowley, himself; no, when Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was still alone in the bedroom. But he could hear Crowley’s voice, distantly muffled, and he realized that it was his answering machine that he was listening to. 

He considered ignoring it. Ignoring things was working splendidly for him, so far, and not thinking about Crowley felt a lot better than thinking about Crowley, which hurt in ways that didn’t bear thinking about. (But maybe it was only fair, seeing as his running away had probably caused Crowley a fair amount of pain.)

So, Aziraphale dragged himself out of bed, wrapping the blankets around his shoulders like a robe. He trudged downstairs, reaching the bottom stair in time to hear the answering machine click off. Whatever message Crowley had just left him, it must have been long. 

The light on the machine was blinking when Aziraphale entered the back office, and the number flashing on the small screen said ‘12’. Aziraphale rubbed at his eyes, just in case he was starting to read numbers wrong as well, but the number didn’t change. Crowley, the only one who even knew he had a phone with an answering machine, had apparently left him a dozen different messages over the last month. Curling up on the couch he kept back there (a comfortable reading space he wasn’t going to need anymore), Aziraphale wrapped the blankets more snugly around his shoulders and pressed play on the machine.

_“Just checking in, angel. Wanted to make sure you were okay after lunch.”_ Crowley’s voice was light and casual, hiding the confusion he must have felt at Aziraphale’s behavior. Aziraphale felt his heart clench, and he pressed the button to advance to the second message. 

_It’s been a couple days, and I haven’t heard from you.”_ More casual, although Aziraphale thought he could hear a hint of tension in Crowley’s voice this time. _”Give me a call, yeah? Just let me know you’re okay.”_

The next couple of messages were more of the same, but the fifth was a little different. _”Stopped by the shop, today. The door wasn’t just locked, it was **locked**-”_ \- and Aziraphale shot a guilty look out toward the door; he didn’t remember magicking it shut, but he must have, if Crowley couldn’t even get inside - _”-and if this is about what I wrote, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, just, please-”_ The message cut off there, Crowley hanging up abruptly, and Aziraphale wondered what else he’d been about to say. 

The next several messages didn’t have any words, just pointed silences that lasted for a couple minutes before Crowley sighed heavily, hanging up. The next was just his name in a quiet whisper, and Aziraphale wanted to cry at how tired Crowley sounded there, how defeated. Because of him.

The tenth message, just a couple days old, was short and to the point: _“Fuck you, you could at least let me know you’re still alive.”_

The next message was just a few hours later, and there was such a long silence at the beginning that Aziraphale was starting to worry. But then Crowley’s voice slurred onto the machine, not nearly drunk enough to hide the pain.

_”I din’t mean that last one, angel,”_ he said, his voice sounding on the verge of tears. _”’M not angry, I - ‘m scared I’ll never see you, again,”_ he whispered, his voice cracking. _“Angel, please talk to me. ‘M sorry about the note, I won’t do it again, I’ll be good and I won’t ever say it again, just please-”_

The last message was the one that had pulled Aziraphale out of sleep. _”Angel, I got a little drunk last night, and I think I left you a message. Whatever I said, can we just pretend it never happened? Can we pretend that this whole last month never happened?”_ A deep, shuddering sigh, and then: _”I’ll be at the park for the next hour or so, if you want to talk. Or not. Whatever.”_

Aziraphale glanced at the clock on the wall; if he hurried, he might just be in time to catch Crowley at the park. And then they’d - well, actually, he didn’t know what they’d do. The thought of talking about what happened still scared him, but maybe if he just got out there, just saw Crowley face-to-face, maybe everything would work itself out. 

He had to hope that it would, because he didn’t know what he’d do if it didn’t.

Shrugging off the blankets, Aziraphale started toward the door. He’d almost made it, had his hand on the doorknob, but he couldn’t make himself open the door. He tried, but his hand was frozen in place. His heart was racing, and his breaths were becoming shallow, and his hand shook so hard the doorknob audibly rattled. But he couldn’t open the door. 

Finally, he yanked his hand away like he’d been burned, staring at the door as tears filled his eyes. He didn’t even try to make it back to the office; he just crumpled to the floor and curled up in a ball, shaking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my attempt at poetry. It's been a long time since I've written any.

Things came to a head on a dreary Tuesday morning.

Aziraphale was in the middle of wrapping up a book for a customer when he heard the bell over the door jingle loudly, the door itself smacking back into the wall before closing with a resounding crash. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, his voice shockingly loud in the quiet of the bookshop. “What the hell is the meaning of this?”

He came stomping up the the desk, radiating fury with every step. Aziraphale’s **_‘store closing - everything must go’_** sign that he’d convinced the shopkeeper next door to write was clutched in his hand, knuckles white with how hard he was gripping the paper. Aziraphale was honestly surprised it hadn’t torn in two.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” he demanded a second time, just in case Aziraphale had misunderstood him the first time. 

“I’m closing the bookshop,” Aziraphale told him. 

After picking himself up off the floor the other day, he’d found himself staring at the bookshop like it was a prison, rather than the haven it had been for so long. The once-cozy shop felt like it was closing in on him, the books mocking him from their shelves. He felt trapped, and the only thing he could think was that he had to do something to make the feeling stop. 

“You’re not closing anything,” Crowley said, glaring at him. He glared at the customer, too, snatching the book the woman was about to buy out of her hands. “This is not for sale. None of it’s for sale. Now get out.”

The customer squeaked, eyes going wide, and then she turned and bolted out the shop. Aziraphale sighed as he watched her leave.

“You can’t scare away all my customers,” he told Crowley. “I’ll never sell all these books if you do.”

“You’re not selling any of these books!” Crowley yelled, waving a hand at the shelves for emphasis. Behind him, the bell jingled softly as the door cracked open, and Crowley whipped his head around to stare down the unsuspecting customer. “Shop’s closed!” he barked, and the customer vanished so quickly that Aziraphale almost suspected Crowley of getting rid of him with magic. 

“This is my store,” Aziraphale said, with what he thought was extraordinary patience, “and I’ll do with it what I like. And what I’d like is to sell all my books and close up. Permanently.”

(He didn’t; he wanted his words back, wanted to find a way to explain to Crowley what was really going on, wanted to feel like his life wasn’t spinning out of control, but he wasn’t going to get what he wanted.)

Crowley stared at him in astonishment. “But-but you love your bookshop,” he said, confused. 

“Things change,” Aziraphale said, forcing a lightness into his voice that he didn’t feel. “I was getting tired of all the clutter, all the books, so I decided to make a change.”

“Are you leaving London?” Crowley asked, softly, a strange note in his voice. 

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale replied, even though he frankly had no idea what he was going to do. “Change is good for the soul, after all, and I think I’ve rather been stagnating here in London all these years. It’ll be nice to get away.”

“Get away from London?” Crowley asked, still in that overly-careful tone. “Or get away from me?”

For a second Aziraphale didn’t understand, although it couldn’t have been any clearer what Crowley was asking. When he got it, he was speechless as he stared at Crowley, trying to figure out how to explain. 

Unfortunately, Crowley took his silence entirely the wrong way. Nodding stiffly, he handed the crumpled sign back to Aziraphale and then turned on his heel and started toward the door. “My apologies for the intrusion, angel,” he said, his voice cold, clipped, barely recognizable. “Good luck on your book sale. Maybe we’ll catch up in a century or two.”

Aziraphale was frozen as he watched Crowley open the door, disappearing out onto the sidewalk, and then something in him broke free, the numbness replaced swiftly by an overwhelming sense of panic. Lunging toward the door, a strangled cry ripped from his throat, he threw himself outside the shop.

“Crowley!” he cried, his voice catching on a sob. “Crowley, wait!”

He looked around wildly, but he didn’t see a shock of bright red hair anywhere. He was too late, Crowley was gone. He’d already lost his books, and now he’d lost the one last good thing in his life - no, he hadn’t lost Crowley, he’d driven him away, and he would never see Crowley again, he was going to be alone-

He buried his face in his hands as he stumbled backward, but he never hit the wall of his shop. Instead, a pair of warm hands wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him gently forward into an embrace. He buried his face into Crowley’s shoulder, shaking, tears spilling from his eyes as he clung tightly to the front of his shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry, please don’t leave me-”

“Shh,” Crowley murmured into his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, angel.” 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale repeated, his voice thick with tears. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m sorry, too; I shouldn’t have walked out like that.” Leaning back just slightly, he tugged Aziraphale downward. “Here, sit down.”

Aziraphale lifted his head long enough to realize that they were back in his shop, that Crowley must have steered them inside while he was having his breakdown. He let Crowley urge him down onto the couch he kept in the back room, reaching for him again as soon as they were both sitting. Crowley wrapped him up in his arms again, one hand running soothingly up and down his back, and Aziraphale tried to get himself back under some semblance of control. 

“What’s going on, angel?” Crowley finally asked, when the silence between them had stretched on long enough. “You run out on me in the middle of lunch, I don’t hear from you for _weeks_, and now I find you closing your bookshop. And all you can tell me is that you want a change!” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to finally explain - but all that came out was a sob. His face felt hot and he struggled to breathe. Embarrassed, he buried his head in Crowley’s shoulder again, trying to keep himself from shaking apart with sheer panic. 

“Slow, deep breaths, angel,” Crowley coached him. 

“This is ridiculous,” Aziraphale managed to choke out. “I don’t even need to breathe.”

“Still helps,” Crowley countered. “Nice and slow, that’s it.”

With Crowley’s help, Aziraphale felt himself coming down from the adrenaline rush that had him wanting to jump out of his own skin. He sighed as he slumped more fully against Crowley, hot tears stinging his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his head just enough to look Crowley in the eye. If he said nothing else today, he had to say this. “I’m sorry for running out on lunch, I’m sorry for hurting you.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Crowley started, but Aziraphale shook his head. 

“Yes, I do,” he argued. “It’s the least that I owe you. Along with an explanation.” He took a deep breath, trying to muster his courage. He didn’t know why it was so hard to get these words out; ironically, he thought, it would be easier if he was able to write his thoughts down, but that was impossible. “There’s something wrong with me, Crowley.”

“What is it, are you hurt?” Crowley’s grip around Aziraphale tightened protectively, and the angry gleam in his eyes suggested that he was ready to storm Heaven, or Hell, or wherever was responsible. 

“Not hurt,” Aziraphale hastened to reassure him. “But, when Adam brought me back into my own body, something went wrong. I can’t-” Why was this so hard? He should just blurt it out and be done with it. “I can’t read, Crowley!”

It was hard to read Crowley’s eyes behind his dark sunglasses, but Aziraphale thought that he’d surprised him. He opened and closed his mouth several times, but no sound came out. Finally: 

“Is that it?” he demanded, incredulous. “Christ, Aziraphale, I thought something was seriously wrong!”

Aziraphale reared back and stared at Crowley, too hurt to even chide him for his language. “Something is wrong,” he insisted, stung. 

Pushing himself out of Crowley’s embrace, he got to his feet and stomped away. He felt foolish as soon as he’d done it, but that didn’t stop him from hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms around his stomach when he heard Crowley coming up from behind him. He stiffened in anticipation of more mocking, but Crowley put a hesitant hand on his shoulder, his touch cautious like he thought it might not be welcome. 

“I’m sorry, angel,” he said, quietly. “I wasn’t making fun, I promise. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded; I just thought it was something like Heaven or Hell coming after you.”

“Nothing like that,” Aziraphale said. Wrapping his arms tighter around his stomach, he mumbled, “It’s just so - so embarrassing. And painful. Books are one of my highest pleasures in life, or they were, and now they’re nothing. Might as well be toilet paper for all the use they are to me!”

Even he could admit to himself that he was being melodramatic at that point, but he couldn’t stop himself. Luckily, Crowley didn’t seem very inclined to point it out, either. 

“It’s not embarrassing,” he said, instead. “I’m sure there are plenty of people who can’t read.”

“It’s not even that,” Aziraphale tried to explain. “When I look at words, nothing makes sense. Letters don’t look like letters - I’m not even sure I could tell what is and isn’t a letter, anymore. How am I supposed to run a bookshop when I can’t read any of the books I’ve got?” finally daring to turn around, he saw that Crowley still didn’t look convinced of his argument. “What if it was you?” he pressed, trying a different tactic. “What if you woke up one morning, and you couldn’t drive? If, when you looked at the Bentley, all you saw were random bits of metal and leather, and you couldn’t figure out what any of it did? What would you do?”

Crowley didn’t argue with him, only looked thoughtful for a minute. “That’s not the question I’d ask,” he finally said, looking at Aziraphale with a curious expression on his face. “The question I’d ask is: what would you do, if I came to you one morning and told you that I couldn’t drive any longer?”

“Well, I can drive,” Aziraphale told him, “and I would, for you, if you needed me-” He got it, suddenly, what Crowley was trying to say, and he frowned. “Well, that’s hardly the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Crowley asked, clearly expecting the question to be rhetoric, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to let it go.

“It is!” he insisted. “I can’t just ask you to drop everything and read to me whenever I want.”

“Why not?” Crowley countered, like that was the only argument he needed. “What better way to spend my time than with you?”

Aziraphale felt his jaw drop open as he stared at Crowley, but Crowley had already turned around and was headed back to the couch, clearly expecting Aziraphale to follow him. “Grab a book,” he called over his shoulder. “If you haven’t read anything in a month, I’d imagine you’re going a little stir-crazy, so let’s start now.”

He said it like it was really that simple, and Aziraphale dazedly grabbed the first book his fingers found and trailed after Crowley. Crowley had already made himself comfortable on the couch, lounging against the entire length. Aziraphale couldn’t figure out where Crowley meant him to sit until Crowley made a gesture, indicating that he intended for Aziraphale to stretch out on top of him, like they’d been lying just a few minutes earlier. Still tense, expecting some kind of rejection or mockery, Aziraphale carefully settled himself against Crowley’s chest, but Crowley simply wrapped his arms around him with a quiet sigh, just holding him for a moment. 

After another moment, he reached for the book still dangling loosely in Aziraphale’s grip. “T.S. Eliot,” he said, an approving tone in his voice. “Going for the classics, I see.”

“Well it’s not like I can read the cover,” Aziraphale pointed out, chuckling weakly as the absurdity of the situation finally hit him. “It was just the first one I grabbed.” Crowley didn’t say anything to that; he just adjusted his grip so that he could hold onto both Aziraphale and the book. But before he could start reading, Aziraphale stopped him. “Crowley, wait.”

“Something wrong, angel?”

“If I’m being honest,” Aziraphale said, hesitantly, “I don’t want to start with Eliot. I want to start with that note you wrote me. The one you gave me at lunch,” he added, just in case there was any confusion. “I don’t know what it says, but it seemed very important to you. And I’d like to know what it said.”

Crowley actually flushed, his cheeks going bright pink. He pulled off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes, but then he didn’t put them back on, looking down at Aziraphale instead with brilliant yellow eyes. 

“That note,” he said, carefully. “That, um, that wasn’t a note. Not exactly. It was a poem.” He looked away quickly as his face went an even deeper red, clearly avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. “A love poem,” he mumbled, almost too quiet for Aziraphale to hear him. 

And all of a sudden things started to make sense. The way Crowley had been nervous at lunch when he’d handed the paper over, his drunken rambling message on the machine- “You wrote me a love poem?” Aziraphale asked. 

“It’s nothing,” Crowley said, trying to deflect, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to let him.

“It’s everything,” he insisted, reaching up to cup Crowley’s cheek, needing that extra point of contact. Crowley slowly turned his face back to look at him, anxiety clear in his eyes. “No one’s ever written me a love poem before,” Aziraphale told him. Another realization, and he winced at the memory. “When I ran away from lunch,” he said, “you must have thought I was rejecting you.”

“It had crossed my mind,” Crowley admitted, after a long moment.

“I would never!” Aziraphale protested, immediately. “I would like to hear your poem, though,” he added, softer. “If you’re still willing to share it.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice suspiciously hoarse, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“I have it upstairs,” Aziraphale told him, but Crowley tightened his arms before he could get up. 

“No need,” Crowley told him. “I remember what I wrote.” He cleared his throat, looking almost nervous.

“I built the stars once  
But they could never compare to your eyes  
The galaxies are a pale imitation of your beauty. 

I’ve spent a hundred thousand lifetimes falling in love with you  
I want to spend eternity by your side  
So that I can love you for a hundred thousand more.

I want to give you all the wonders of the world  
Because only they could hope to compare  
To the way you make me feel.”

Aziraphale found himself transfixed by the way Crowley’s voice rose and fell in an almost-lyrical melody. He closed his eyes as he listened, letting the words, the _love_ wash over him. He’d never felt more cherished than in that moment. 

“I love it,” he murmured, quietly, when Crowley trailed off. “And I love you,” he added, looking Crowley in the eye. If Crowley could be brave enough, so could he. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, a cautiously hopeful smile on his face. When Aziraphale nodded, Crowley leaned down to kiss him, slow and sweet and full of promise. Full of love. “I hope you know you’re stuck with me, now,” Crowley quipped, after he finally, reluctantly pulled away. 

“For eternity, I hope,” Aziraphale replied, echoing Crowley’s own words back at him. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


End file.
